Intoxicated, William stretches out his performance, waiting hand on hip, bent knee, for the mirth to build; then, with a powerful falsetto and an overblown accent, he replies, ‘Ciao bella.’
By the final scene, audience and cast are swimming in a sea of endorphins. William has been camping it up for an hour, hidden behind the make-up, wig and ridiculous voice. When it comes to the final falling-domino scene of kisses, he’s able to participate wholeheartedly in the giving and receiving of a hearty smacker in the evidently insatiable hunger for yet more laughter. The whole thing is so exciting and fun and warm, and smells of make-up and cotton sheets, with lights making the stage so bright and sparkly, that he feels he has crossed over into an altogether more exciting and vibrant life than he had imagined possible for himself. He is touched beyond measure when the cast has taken its bows and everyone drops hands to applaud him, the unexpected star of the show.
He inhales the smell of hot milk and chocolate as they form a line near the range, where Flo ladles out cocoa from the large pan. When Imogen puts an arm round his shoulder, he worries that the sudden erection must be visible through his frock.
‘William!’ she says. ‘You certainly connected with your inner diva.’
‘He did, didn’t he?’ laughs a delighted Martin.
‘It’s that beautiful voice he’s got in there.’ Flo taps his chest.
‘Martin tells me you’ll be doing the “Miserere” this year,’ Mr Mussey says. ‘Mind if we come to hear you?’
‘I might not,’ he says, face burning, ‘but if I do, of course. That would be great.’
‘You wouldn’t sing for us now, would you, boys?’ says Mrs Mussey, seated at the kitchen table with her father. ‘Before Grandad goes home?’
Martin looks expectantly at William, who nods back.
‘What shall we do?’ says Martin.
‘“Myfanwy”?’ William says.
Martin pulls a face. ‘Bit of a downer? And they heard it three years ago.’
‘But it’s about unrequited love,’ says William.
‘Oh, let’s have that, Martin!’ Mrs Mussey looks from one to the other. ‘We could do with a bit of calming down.’
‘We can do it in Welsh or English,’ William offers, becoming gradually conscious of the make-up and dress he’s wearing.
‘Welsh!’ a few voices shout. This lot seem predisposed to favour the more challenging option. William was astonished to discover earlier that the Musseys think it’s cheating to look at the picture on the box when you do a jigsaw.
‘But you have to tell us what it means first,’ says Imogen, looking solely at William.
‘Let’s go back into the sitting room.’ Mrs Mussey gives an arm to help her father up. ‘We can all sit down and you can give us a translation before you sing.’
William and Martin stand where they performed the play, while every chair is landed on by the adults and every space on the floor occupied by the young Musseys.
Martin nods at William. ‘You tell them about the song.’
William suddenly feels raw, standing there in drag, about to tell them something so beautiful and tender. As if he’s about to peel off a layer of skin.
‘It’s about a boy who loves a girl called Myfanwy. They’ve promised to be together, but he knows she doesn’t love him any more, so although he’s heartbroken, he releases her from the promises she made to him.’ William is much more aware now than he was during the play of the faces watching him. ‘Because more than anything, he wants her to be happy. In the last verse, he asks her to hold his hand one last time, but only to say goodbye.’
‘Oh, dear God! I’m welling up already,’ says Mrs Mussey, pulling a hanky out from her sleeve and dropping it on her lap in cheerful readiness.
‘Sounds marvellous, boys, off you go,’ says Martin’s dad, who sounds weary and might just want to go to bed.
With their vocal cords already warm and elastic, they start, with what Martin would call a juicy, plum pie sound. In spite of all the excitement and adrenaline of the evening, William relaxes his eyes so he can focus on the sound, not anyone’s face.
They’re done and there it is – that heavy beat of silence – the mute thump of emotion before the startled burst of applause. Martin’s grandfather stands and claps with his hands above his head. Imogen and Isobel both whistle with their fingers in their mouths, clapping each other’s spare hands. Mrs Wickers is crying. He and Martin bow and bow again, so drawn out is the clapping. William allows himself to look at everyone’s faces, meet their eyes, but it’s not until he notices that Mr and Mrs Mussey are holding hands that he realises he is holding Martin’s, with no idea how they came to be like this. He gently pulls it free.
William finally drops onto the soft mattress shortly after midnight for his last night before returning to school. Martin only just walloped down on his seconds ago, but his breathing already seems to be deepening.
‘Martin?’
‘Mmm?’
‘I’ve had a great time.’
‘Mmm.’
‘Thanks for inviting me.’
‘You’re welcome – Bella.’
William is asleep within seconds.
He can’t breathe. The huge, sinewy mermaid is writhing on top of him. He struggles to free himself from her strong, wet tail which is coiling round his waist. Her mouth is all over his, salty, sea-swilled. He gasps and recoils and doesn’t understand why he should have an erection when he is so revolted by the fish woman on top of him.
Wait. He really can’t breathe. The mermaid has vanished. He is awake, but his mouth is still covered; a body weighs down on his. In a panic, he shoves it away, is finally able to breathe in, ready to shout out, but a big fleshy hand stifles it.
‘Shhh, it’s only me.’ Martin’s whisper is quieter than breath. His face eclipses the room.
‘What are you doing?’ William’s heart is flinging itself against the cage of his ribs.
‘I thought you wanted it.’ William feels Martin’s erection against his stomach. He pushes him away again, twisting his face from Martin’s.